by Sadie Wolf
Nina was ordered back to her dormitory to retrieve her regulation tennis underwear. She was reminded that any delay would result in even more severe punishment.
She left the study, her tiny skirt flapping against her inflamed bottom and thighs. Clasping her hands to her buttocks, she could feel the heat radiating from beneath the skirt.
A few moments later she returned to Bendrick’s office. He took the knickers from her and asked her why she had seen fit not to wear them on the tennis court.
‘Well, some of my friends said I wouldn’t dare wear that thong on court,’ she said feebly.
‘Well now you will wear them, and to very good effect,’ he sneered. ‘But first, I want you to dip them in the ice bucket and wring them out before you put them on.’
Nina did as she was told. The water stung her hand as she immersed her school tennis knickers. She bent forward and put them on, flinching at the unfamiliar sensation of having her nether regions clad in something so cold and wet.
‘Now kneel on my desk, and remember to keep your knees as far apart as possible,’ he instructed.
Next she was told to lean forward and rest her chin on the backs of her hands. Behind her, she heard Bendrick opening his punishment cabinet.
He returned with a small, round wooden paddle. Without warning, it struck her right cheek and made a satisfying splatting sound. She thought she would be unable to endure any further blows, but he soon silenced her by telling her that her next punishment would be in front of the entire school on the last day of term unless she bore this one with fortitude.
Blow after blow after blow landed on her moistened and smarting posterior. Wearing a pair of saturated knickers gave her a peculiar sensation and reminded her of her vulnerability. She began to move her hips slowly from side to side. Once the Headmaster considered that his wooden paddle had had the desired effect, he paused and ran his hand over her exposed flesh.
‘I think we’ll have these off now,’ he suggested.
Without hesitating, Birch leapt from the desk and pulled off the sodden knickers, placing them on the desk.
‘Now, it’s time for the frog position.’
Birch knew exactly what he meant. He strode over to the leather Chesterfield sofa on the other side of the room. Birch followed behind, and as soon as the headmaster was comfortable on the couch she turned her back to him, squatted on all fours and placed her legs either side of his hips. Her head rested on her hands at the edge of the Persian rug. He had the perfect view of her exposed bottom, her parted labia and her rectal orifice.
He slapped a small leather paddle against the palm of his hand. He began, slowly, striking her cheeks and deliciously parted thighs and she twitched with each hit of the paddle. ‘I think you particularly enjoy this position Nina, don’t you?’ he said.
‘Yes sir, I know it allows you to see everything, and if you’re happy then I’m happy,’ she replied.
‘Good girl!’
He patted her thighs and, once again, started to circle her anus with his forefinger. She expected him to explore her rectum, but instead of doing so he picked up a small, rubber flogger – a Spartacus Leather 10-inch Pink Thong Whip – from the sofa, and began flicking it so that its stinging tips landed at the entrance to her back passage. Her buttocks moved up and down with every fresh sting. Soon, the sphincter was winking in time with his intimate attentions.
Then he moved lower, ensuring that the ends of the flogger landed between her parted labia and roused her clitoris from its slumbers.
‘Nina, one thing you will learn when you leave the school is to make sure that your man is satisfied,’ he said. ‘What pleases your man will ultimately please you.’
‘Now lie on your back with your head and this satin cushion and place your bottom on my lap with your legs drawn up to your chest,’ he commanded.
Soon, her pink inner labia were on display with her swollen and equally pink outer labia. He reached down and began to stroke her pussy. But soon the strokes became less gentle and he started to pinch and squeeze. His hand was cupped and he paused before landing some not so gentle slaps on her fleshy mound. She gasped in pain but didn’t dare close her thighs.
‘Nina, you are both very good and very, very bad,’ he smiled.
‘Now remove your T-shirt – I assume you’re not wearing a bra as usual – and come back to stand in front of me.’
She sprang from his lap and pulled the tennis shirt over her head. She was standing in the centre of the Persian rug, dressed only in her tiny tennis skirt, white sports shoes and knee-length socks.
‘Stay exactly where you are, bend over and place the palms of your hands on the rug,’ he ordered.
‘And I’m sure I don’t need to tell you to open your legs as wide as you can.’
Obligingly, Birch reached forward and spread her feet so that her legs made a wide V-shape. He picked up a crop from the top of his desk and stationed himself behind her and to her left.
She expected the end of the leather to start stinging her buttocks, perhaps even her thighs. Instead, he rested it on the carpet and brought it up swiftly so that it struck her already smarting cunt. She almost leapt into the air with the shock of the impact.
‘Hold your position,’ he commanded. She dared not do otherwise. He brought the crop up again and again and always managed to find the delicate fold between her outer labia with each hit. Then he swung the crop back and started to cover her buttocks and inner thighs with short, sharp, stinging slaps that made her draw breath.
‘Just remember, you have two more weeks here and we can repeat this all day and every day unless you co-operate fully.’
Next, he ordered her to stand, feet together, in the centre of the rug with her hands clasped behind her back. The effect was to push forward her ample and superbly rounded breasts.
Bendrick circled around her and came to rest in front of her only a few inches from her face. He reached out his right hand and, with one swift and calculated movement, pulled and twisted her left nipple cruelly. It was all she could do not to leap back and scream. Instead, she inhaled sharply and bit her lip. Abruptly he let go of the nipple, drew back his hand and gave her left breast a hard smack on the side.
‘You’re lucky I don’t have any nipple clamps,’ he said. ‘Mind you, if I place an order tonight they’ll be here in a couple of days. In fact I think I will do that very thing.’
He reached forward with his left hand and weighed her right breast in his palm. Just as she was beginning to enjoy the sensation, he drew his thumbnail across the centre of the nipple digging it in sharply.
He turned back to his desk and retrieved the crop.
‘Now make sure you hold your position,’ he instructed.
He raised the crop and began inflicting sharp little stings all over Nina’s prominent, firm breasts. Soon little pink patches appeared everywhere the crop had visited. She stood stiffly to attention, never flinching and never protesting.
Then he took up the small rubber flogger and began directing well-aimed strikes at her already proud nipples. They began to change colour from a rosy pink to a darker, angrier hue.
When he decided that she had taken almost all she could before breaking down and abandoning her customary poise, the punishment was over. For that day at least.
Birch would be a difficult act to follow; there was barely a girl in the lower sixth who came close to her in terms of ability, beauty and the natural inclination to submit. Moreover, she was equally adept at keeping order among her peers and was accorded unquestioned respect by the other pupils.
Bendrick turned to her and smiled enigmatically.
‘And the next time that you and your team mates decide to choose your own underwear, I’ll thrash the lot of you over the tennis net in front of the spectators.’
Nina blushed at the thought of such public humiliation. Giving the boys a cheap thrill by wearing a g-string was one thing, having one’s nether regions exposed to all and sundry was something
else entirely.
Now put these damp knickers on and get yourself back to the dorm for a good hot shower.’
Nina walked demurely to the headmaster’s study door and looked back over her shoulder.
‘Oh, and, Nina?’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘I expect you to dish out suitable discipline to the rest of the tennis team. I’m sure this was your idea, but that doesn’t mean the rest of them were blameless. Make sure they learn their lesson, will you?’
Nina smiled. ‘Of course, sir, you know you can rely on me.’
With that, she closed the door quietly behind her and began contemplating the next few hours that she would spend in the company of five young ladies in need of a firm hand.
Anatomy of a Brat
by Poppy St Vincent
I have been burned.
My burns were not delivered by a card shark or by a flamethrower. I have been burned by the sun. It is only a little burn and it was not my fault. It is my skin’s fault because my skin is silly. It believes I am a vampire and thinks I should stay indoors whenever there is enough daylight to see where I am walking. I do not think that a tiny bit of sun should turn anyone’s arms such an unnatural shade of crimson. It is the deepest red my skin ever can achieve. It matches my mood. I am furious.
I am furious because my burn stings horribly. I am furious because it is so unfair I should have to lather up like a clown in white goo to go outside. I am furious because I would never have got burned if Dan were not staying with us.
Dan makes me laugh and smile, and flirts in the sweetest way. Dan was with me all morning and I did not want to look silly in front of him. I wanted to be like a normal girl. Dan was there the whole time and saw no problem at all with my using a factor of cream that you would have made me throw away as useless rubbish.
I am furious because you were right when you told me to use factor three million before you left this morning. I am furious because I was in a sulk with you for going away and so I may have used a lower factor than even I thought I needed just to make a point. I do not know quite what point. I am too angry to remember. I am just furious.
I have rubbed baby lotion over my burns twice. I now smell good and am really quite slippery. I think of you trying to hold me like this and almost smile. I have done all I could to make it better. But it hurts so much I can’t stand it and I am furious all over again.
And now you are home and are horrified at what I have done to myself. I try to tell you it was not me it was the sun and my useless genetic makeup. I offer you the phone number of my parents. It is their fault, but you ignore my help without so much as a pause.
It is all so unfair and I am so grumpy I think my only option is to squeeze my eyes tight shut while I am scolded. I ignore as much as I can. The way you talk means I get to ignore about one word in twenty but that is fine by me.
I am irritated by my own carelessness but I can’t admit this. And I hate knowing that from now on you will check whether I actually use sun cream, so my very realistic aim of getting a tan becomes far less likely.
I feel two feet tall when you talk to me that way. Your being right makes everything twenty times worse but I swallow my strop. I know that arguing with you is ill-advised and can work an evil magic: the kind of magic where a telling off grows and mutates into something terrible and memorable, the kind of thing that hurts my bottom.
I wonder if Dan’s being here saved me from a spanking. I can’t believe you have not noticed my mood. I know your embarrassment threshold is much, much higher than mine. You would not hesitate to tell me off when Dan is with us, but it is less likely I think. I am all yours. I love this.
Dan knows about us. He knew you long before I did. You and he live the same way, and his girlfriends get much the same treatment I do. He spanks them and treats them with the same adoring bossiness you do. You are so alike in this, I wonder you are not brothers. You and I have talked about how you would not hesitate to spank me in front of him. This is the reason I am normally so good in Dan’s presence.
I know Dan is safe and honourable. I know you trust him, even with me. I am always only the tiniest bit of a brat around Dan. I know exactly what he will let me get away with and I can play him to my heart’s content. It is not like that with you. I can’t control you at all.
You have finished scolding me. I know I must continue to not let you see my rage. I take what I can get and walk away the moment you allow me to.
I head away from you and seek out Dan. He will cheer me up and say nice things. He has to be kind because that is what he does. I need to feel spoiled after being dressed down so thoroughly. I wish to be soothed and to have nice things said to me. I want to feel happy and not feel told off.
I find him in the den watching something appallingly dull on the TV. It may be some form of sport, or a film with war or cowboys. I look but I see no pretty dresses and decide the TV is irrelevant and that I may interrupt with impunity. I bounce next to him on the sofa and smile hopefully. I like chatting to him. He will make me smile. Endlessly patient, he does just that, at least until he spies my burned arms.
Dan sighs in a way that is irritatingly reminiscent of you and asks if you have seen what I managed to do to myself. I tell him you have indeed seen and have told me all I need to hear on the matter. I thank him and request a change of subject. I want gossip on his latest girlfriend and not a rehash of a telling off that was unnecessary in the first place.
Dan looks at me with narrowed brown eyes, his head slightly cocked. He listens like you listen. It feels like a preliminary hearing. Apparently the double jeopardy rule does not apply to me.
I sit, I listen, and I try to look like I am good. I don’t squirm like I do when you tell me off. But he talks and I feel resentful and embarrassed.
I like Dan to think well of me, I like him to not see the bad parts. I want him to be nice to me. I want to get my own way with him, like I can’t with you. So I try hard to smile and be compliant or something that looks like compliance, but I have just sat through being told off once and I am not prepared to be good twice in a row. I do not want to be told off by Dan at all. I can’t see why I should accept any of this. I feel stupid and search for a response other than anger. I can’t find one.
The moment Dan starts to suggest that I need more after-sun lotion I take my moment with both hands. I can glimpse freedom and start to scuttle away. I have not yet made it off the sofa before his final sentence.
He tells me to put on some moisturiser. He does not ask, he does not suggest. He uses the tone of a man who expects to be obeyed. He tells me that I am ‘going to’. There is no request and no room for manoeuvre – just a bloody order.
Do you know the moment when it is all too much? I am cornered and fed up. How much is a girl supposed to take?
Although Dan is someone I adore and I think is wonderful and I would sooner cut off my own hair than hurt him, I just can’t take one more moment of not getting my own way. I do not respond politely as I might. I do not thank him for his concern. I do what feels most satisfying: I stand up and walk out. The devil then takes hold of me and I realise this is my one chance. I have been told off and dismissed. If you were to do that I would retreat and count myself lucky not to be tipped over your lap. But this is not you.
I mutter, just loud enough to be heard, the rudest thing I can think of. It feels so good to let it out, so satisfying to be able to express myself like that. As I leave, I hold the door behind me in both hands and slam it shut as hard as I can. It is childish, I know, but it helps me. I storm away feeling I have scrabbled back a bit of the self-respect I lost a few moments before. I won’t be spoken to like that. Dan will know he has upset me and he will say sorry.
I walk away faster than feels natural, dodging the guilt close on my heels.
It is but a moment before I see you standing a few feet away in the corridor. Your head is tilted to one side and you look at me as though I were a thing of particular interest, a spe
cimen in a bell jar perhaps. I stop. The word thwarted bobs into my head and I try to ignore it. My mood of righteous indignation walks past me and leaves.
You are silent. I decide to be silent too. It may help. I wonder how excellent your hearing is. It would not have to be very excellent to hear the door slam, but the expletive I hissed out a moment earlier may well have escaped your notice. I am not the slightest bit sorry. I know you will know this. I just hope you will not find out what I am not sorry for.
I try the ancient ninja invisibility trick. I squeeze my eyes shut. I can’t see you therefore you can’t see me. For some reason this does not work. I open my eyes and you still are looking at me. I flick my eyes towards the front door; it looks much more welcoming than you. You say just two words.
‘Stay there.’
I used up all my bravery on the door slam and the passionate wording at my exit, so I stay where I am told to and watch you open the door I used so much energy to shut. In the silence of my hot whirring head I use every profanity I can think of while I strain to hear the conversation within. It is a problem with masculine voices that they sound a bit vague and threatening when heard through a wall. Silly as it may be I do not dare move even a step. I feel sick. My arms hurt, I remind myself I am a victim in all this.
I worry about what you two are saying. I realise in my clenched brain that Dan is the one man in the world you would allow to spank me. You told me this once. I stand imagining my escape, wondering about asylum and where the nearest cathedral is and if they still grant sanctuary.
I also realise that if I had used those words to you … I can’t even think that sentence. It had not occurred to me you might be a bit irked if I used them in your house, to your friend. Dan will not tell you. He couldn’t. It was between him and me. It is none of your business.
The door opens, softly as if to mock my previous slam. I feel so, so stupid. I have one-sixth the strength of either of you. I realise that slamming the door made me look idiotic.
You don’t have to say anything. You look at me with raised brows and move to the side to make room for me to pass. I walk with silent steps. I am showing you that I can be good now. I can be quiet. Quiet isn’t something you ask of me and I offer it as testimony of my goodness.
